


The Night Wears Black

by potentialfordisaster



Series: Batman AU [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Action & Romance, Batman AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Second identity, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentialfordisaster/pseuds/potentialfordisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his habit of fighting crime as a night vigilante, Chris ignores the confusing nature of the events that unfold in Gotham. But when led by a incresiangly growing attraction, Chris gets personally involved in this web, and now must uncoil the thread to get to the bottom of organized crime, facing new enemies still unknown and an old, familiar one for whom he has more than one desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second part to my AU! I don't know how many chapters long this will be, sadly, I'm still working on it behind the curtains. This chapter was supposed to be larger but I'm posting now only the first scenes because this feels like it needs a sort of prologue. So my apologies if the second takes longer, which it probably will. Truly hope you'll like it!

-

_By day the bat is cousin to the mouse._  
_He likes the attic of an aging house._  
(...)  
_But when he brushes up against a screen,_  
_We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:_  
_For something is amiss or out of place  
_ _When mice with wings can wear a human face._

_The Bat, Theodore Roethke_

 

-

 

Without the makeup Alfred has become so experienced on applying, Chris comes to the conclusion that hiding his bruises from his employees would be a way more difficult task. But thankfully he has Alfred on his side, so the bruises the cat-like man had left on his face the night before were shrouded under a layer of foundation. 

Alfred tips his chin to the side, humming in concentration as he gives his face some finishing touches. He had sent Chris his batmobile last night, after twenty minutes of Chris attempting to reach him. He had asked if Chris was okay and that had been it, not holding back a smile when his eyes fell on the bruises on his face. 

"Just..." Chris had tried to explain, motioning towards his own face. "Just met a rowdy crew." 

Alfred had nodded, putting on his best convinced face. "If you hadn't told me, sir, I would think them love scratches." Chris blushed, but his butler seemingly had let that slide. 

Alfred steps back when done, Chris inching closer to the wide mirror on his bathroom to inspect his face. 

"Perfect, Alfred. As always." Chris says, buttoning the last buttons of his white dress shirt. 

"My pleasure, sir," Alfred smiles, and they return to the main suite, where Chris lets himself be helped into his tie before putting on his jacket. Alfred opens the door for him, following his steps down the staircase. "Your ride awaits for you, sir." Alfred states, serving Chris his suitcase and his coat at the front door, where sure enough, Chris can see his driver awaiting at the gravel path before the front steps. 

"Thank you, Alfred. I shall return before six tonight." Chris says, nodding to his butler, valet and old friend. Alfred nods dutifully, and watches him go. 

 

~*~ 

 

Standing before the glass walls of his office, Chris takes Gotham City in, hands shoved in his pockets. The city looks innocent enough, the tall buildings with its many glinting windows, the grey lines of streets and avenues where tiny shadows of vehicles swim past. Just outside the downtown circle the smallest buildings lay, the suburbs, and Chris squints to better see them. 

The first thing he did last night after arriving - and taking a long, cold shower - was to enter his main system on the basement and activate his motorcycle's GPS location. The white circle rested above a line called St James Street, number 31. Some good close-ups later revealed the street to be clustered with small houses, bricks upon bricks designed into walls and windows in a way that had long ago been fashionable. Chris knew enough of Gotham's geography to know his vehicle had ended up in the suburbs, in some bad-lit ghetto, apparently. This could only mean the alluring cat-man lived there, or at least, had some business in there. 

Chris' phone beeped when Caroline, his secretary, interrupted his thoughts. "Mr Hemsworth, would like your lunch delivered now?" 

Chris turned to his table, holding the button to answer "In a few minutes, please, Caroline, thank you," but his eyes were drawn once more to the headlines of the newspaper Caroline had fetched him this morning, the bold letters resting just below the phone. They were about yesterday's situation in the bank, of course, and a spark lit up in Chris' mind. 

Under the albeit truthful excuse of having a great part of his money in an account of Gotham's Central Bank, Chris collects more information on yesterday's breaking and entering. According to William, the bank's president, who talked to him personally on the phone, a still non-identified person accompanied by other men that were captured, had broken into the building in ways that were still unknown, hacked into William's controlling system using his fingerprint and activated the security locks. William sounded more than hesitant to let that information spill, saying he had no idea how someone could've discovered his biometric patterns, but was soundly relieved when mentioning the Batman had apparently interfered. After hearing everything in silence, Chris asks a final question: if they knew what the criminal was after. 

"No, no, that's actually the most troublesome of our situation." William answered, "My computer has nothing, all the money is still in our accounts, our cash machines weren't boosted, everything is in perfect order save for some windows and the general ambience of my office." A sigh. "We don't know if Batman reverted the situation or if they just entered to do nothing, it's all very confusing. No transactions, no transferences, it's as though he was a ghost." The sly smile on that feline man's face flashed in Chris' mind all the while, and he internally agreed his agile antics could be compared to those of a ghost. 

Chris hangs up after the trivial cordialities, letting out a great breath through his nose as he swings on his chair, turning once more to Gotham's landscape. The suburbs rest up north, and it's in that direction that his gaze turns to. 

"Who are you?" he says under his breath, and the silence that follows feels strangely lonely. 

 

~*~ 

 

Before heading home, Chris stops by at the Research Department, where he finds Fox deep in thought while staring at a complicated project of a plane. "My private jet?" Chris jokes in lieu of announcing his presence, taking a seat on the edge of Fox's table. 

Fox looks up at him and smiles. "We'll see." 

He looks the same, kind eyes and perpetual smile, small glasses perched atop his nose. He folds his work, though, shucking it to the side as it rests among others, similar papers. Chris licks his lips and meets his curious stare with no hesitation. 

"I think I'll need to ask you for a favor, my friend." 

Fox laughs, nodding as he rests back against his chair, hands folding above his belly. It's clear he was expecting nothing less."Any technology you wish?" 

Chris shakes his head, always amused in Fox's presence. "No, it's not about that." He pauses, taking a look around before reaching for the small plastic sample bag he kept in his breast pocket, presenting it to Fox in secrecy, handing it to the man, who frowned and held it up against the light, the single, blond curl glinting inside it. 

"A hair strand?" Fox asks, surprised into seriousness. 

Chris nods, a part of his heart sad for parting with the blond curl he had found on his outfit that morning. He supposed it fell while they fought or flew, he wasn't sure, was only glad he was able to keep a souvenir. But he had to hand it to Fox now in favor of gathering more information on the feline beauty. 

"DNA?" Fox asks, simply. 

"Yes," Chris answers, watching fondly as Fox stores the sample away, nodding to Chris with an air of loyalty. 

"It takes some time." He says, but Chris knows. 

"I'm aware." 

Fox stares at him for a while, his lips stretching into a slow smile, probably reading Chris' expression. With their long years of friendship, Chris wouldn't be surprised if he was now an open book to him. "No wish to tell me anything else?" Fox asks, winking. 

Chris sighs and gets up from the table, straightening his suit and heading for the door. "I think the cat got my tongue," he replies, smiling, but Fox doesn't get the joke. 

 

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was evaluating the plot and I decided I'll pop one or two Batman characters but other, original ones too. I don't know much about the Batman universe so I'd have to do a research to find characters that'd fit the story instead of writing it the way I think it's supposed to be. And it seems to me I'd get too stuck on trying to fit it in a universe that already exists and which I'm not too familiar with, and I don't think this is what I am, or you are, looking for in this.
> 
> That said, enjoy the chapter!

~*~ 

 

Two days go by without much movement, Chris only putting on his outfit to save an atm from getting robbed. Chris finds his mind eaten by thoughts of _him_ plenty of times during the day, striking whenever he's executing tasks considered uneventful, the man's contours becoming more and more blurry the more Chris expends away his memory remembering it. It feels like a year since the last time they saw each other, and yet, it had only been three days, the thin slit of the cut on the upper part of Chris' hand seeming to pulse as if on alarm when the image of that small and mock coil smirk approached his mind. He thinks about a lot of things, mostly of long black-leathered legs and the shape of them around his waist, but also more productive stuff. He thinks about going to St James Street to get his motorcycle back, but the capricious, strangely warm thought of leaving it on the cat-man's hands made him reconsider. They shared a bond in some way as long as he kept Chris' vehicle, and Chris rolled his eyes at himself, if that wasn't the most romantic vision of a burglary ever! Besides, it was not as if he didn't have his batmobile or was walking barefooted to his job, locomotion was hardly his main issue. 

He waits and waits for Fox's DNA results, and just when he thinks he won't be able to wait any longer, his phone rings. "It's ready," Fox tells him, and Chris breathes out in relief. "Want to get his record tomorrow with me or you can view it yourself?" 

"I can view it myself here," Chris says, hurrying down the stairs in his sweatpants and cotton shirt, taking quick looks around before running towards the basement and turning on his system. "Just give me the name, Fox." 

"All right," Fox agrees, and there's a rustle of paper at the other side of the line, Chris tapping his foot impatiently, finger poised above the keyboard expectantly. "The strand of hair you gave me belongs to Thomas William Hiddleston. Did you get that? H-I- Two ds..." 

"Yes, yes, I got it." Chris hurries to answer, mind sharpening and enveloping the name quickly, like fresh water in a dry soil, and he types in the name. 

His screen fills with the photo of the man, clean-faced, aristocratic nose and the same thin rosy lips, his eyes looking smaller without the mask he usually wore, delicate features and his small blond curls. Chris first gapes, looking up at the wide screen until he booms out a great laugh in victory, gaze locked on his - _Tom's_ \- face. 

"He has an extensive criminal file," Fox pipes in from the phone. "Most connected to jewelry theft." 

"I know," Chris says without thinking. It is satisfying to put the name to a face, or a face to the name, if that is how he prefers to view it, and even more so to such a beautiful face. On the photo, _Tom's_ head is tilted back, smiling defiantly as he holds up the black plaque with his name on it. 

"He was arrested only once, and escaped the day after. The officer on charge said he escaped through the window, though it was so small they considered no human could go through. That, of course, rendered him the popular comparison to a cat." 

Chris nods blankly, opening Tom's criminal file on his computer as well. As Fox said, Tom was associated to a great number of jewelry thefts, his crimes dating back to three years ago. 

"He's currently an outlaw. The price for his head is of fifty thousand. A rather low price for him, if you ask me." Fox finishes in a somber voice, and there's a distinct silence as he pauses. Chris feels it, and for once turns his attention back to his friend on the phone. "It's the same as always, Chris: don't tell me and I won't have to lie. But I'm no idiot." 

Chris smiles, heart expanding when seeing he had such a loyal friend in Fox. "Thank you so much, Fox. I truly don't know how to thank you properly." 

There's a thoughtful hum at the other side of the line. "That wine cellar of yours still working?" 

Chris chuckles. "Yes, I had it repaired." 

"Well, I could stop by for a couple bottles some day." 

Chris laughs. "Sure, you'll be more than welcome to." 

Fox hangs up after that, and Chris spends the rest of his night reading _Tom's_ criminal file. Chris remembers having met him on some of his most famous thefts, a goldsmith's shop downtown and even that expensive jewelry store his mother used to buy from. He had always managed to escape Chris though, and the newspapers never brushed that fact off. Instead of revolted, it just made Chris strangely proud, and when his eyes began to droop out of his own accord, he decided it was time for bed. 

 

~*~ 

 

The next day proves itself a very difficult and boring day for him at work, and Chris spends away his frustration by hitting a dummy in his basement, the cavernous walls keeping him company. His chest is drenched in sweat that glistens under the light of his wide screened monitor on the wall, and Chris hits the dummy with a severe kick that sends it off, thumping against the wall. Sighing, he's putting it back in place when he hears the elevator sliding down. 

Chris cleans his forehead with the back of his forearm and gives Alfred a glance as he disembarks from the elevator, adjusting the lapels of his suit as he strides over. His butler turns to give his screen an interesting smile. On it, the photo of Tom takes in all the space, a small window at the corner blinking the GPS location, still in the same boring St James Street. 

Alfred clears his throat, turning teasing eyes to Chris but he pretends he doesn't see it, cheeks warm. He was aware his obsession could look strange. 

Alfred comes to a stop at the edge of the mat, regally withdrawing a rectangular folded paper from his breast pocket. "This has only just arrived at the mail, sir." 

Chris pauses on his practice, brows dipping when he comes closer to inspect the paper handed to him by Alfred. It's an invitation for a beneficent gala party. Chris flicks the paper to see the remittent. "Sunshine Charities Inc.?" He reads, and turns to Alfred for confirmation. His butler only shrugs. "Do I donate to this?" 

"I believe your father used to, sir." 

Chris opens the envelope and the invitation seems legit. They invite him with pretty words to participate in their donor's gala tomorrow night. 

"What should I answer, sir?" Alfred asks, watching him impartially. 

Chris reads the whole letter attentively. "Nothing," he says after a moment, flapping the envelope on his palm. 

Alfred nods, unsurprised, turning on his heels, "He's good-looking," he says, before taking his leave. Chris startles and smirks shyly, eyes darting to Tom's face on the monitor. 

"That he is." He agrees and Alfred gives a short laugh. 

"Hard to catch?" Alfred asks, already inside the elevator. 

Chris grins, shaking his head and swinging a punch at his dummy. "You have no idea." 

 

~*~ 

 

The gala event works much like many of the others Chris uses to frequent: a soft, low classic music playing in the background, women with hairs artfully held, straight-postured men in impeccable suits holding arms with their dates and quick waiters in white gloves and tailcoats carrying trays of small appetizers. 

Chris is quickly joined into a group of "respectable gentlemen" that wastes no time in greeting him rather enthusiastically before dragging him into a talk of finances. They stand in a circle at the center of the room, where while pretending to be listening, Chris runs his gaze around the room. He nods to personalities he knows from sight, ignoring the lingering and hopeful looks thrown his way by the young ladies. 

"Mr Hemsworth," one of the men calls, and Chris turns back to them. "We wanted to know if you heard about the bank's incident." He asks, twirling his glass of champagne in his hand, small intelligent eyes behind his round glasses. 

"Oh," Chris makes, tilting his head backwards in airs of surprise. "I did, yes. A very uncommon incident." 

They all nod to his words, apparently sharing his opinion. "You all know William Earle, the president?" Another asks, and Chris and the rest nod. "Well, we share the same lawyer," the man continued. "And he told me Mr Earle went livid when finding out. Apparently," and here he lowered his voice, eyes running over every face in the group, a grimace twisting his lips, as though abhorring to part with the news, "he knew who had his fingerprint." 

Chris tensed, but didn't let it show, paying more interest in the conversation. Some of the men let out small gasps that were interrupted when the background music changed into a slow tune, gathering couples to dance under the big chandelier hanging above the ballroom. 

"And who could be it?" The round-glassed man from before asked. The other shrugged. 

"Someone from inside the building, probably." A man who stood beside Chris spoke in, his voice deep. 

"Still," another piped up. "Nothing was stolen." 

There was a collective groan. It made no sense. "And the Batman?" The man beside Chris spoke again, and Chris cut his gaze to him. "Perhaps he did it." 

"Stole William's fingerprint?" Chris finally asks, making a face that delated how he felt about that possibility. 

"Yes," the man continued, only nodding quickly to him before going on. "He was the only one with means to get into the building unseen." 

"But there's also the cat." The round-glassed man says and they go silent. Chris breathes in respectfully, listening to the man as he continues to formulate his idea. "He's sneakier than Batman," he lifts a finger, and says in a lower voice, "And we all know for whom he works for." 

Chris' eyes possibly widen, and he focuses himself on the round-glassed man, a muscle between his eyebrows jumping. So Tom works for someone? Chris edges closer, desperate to hear what the man is about to add, heart thrumming and ears attuned, but he's interrupted when a soft hand lands on his shoulder to get his attention. 

"Mr Hemsworth?" Comes the silky voice from behind him, and Chris freezes. 

He turns to slowly look over his shoulder, and the men around him fall silent. 

It's him. Tom. Dressed in a black, well-fitted suit, he smirks up at Chris with innocent eyes. Chris only stares at him, in shock, and his hard stare accompanied with the others' must look very rude and unwelcome because Tom lets his gaze fall to the floor and gives a short, embarrassed laugh, looking out of his element for the first time. 

"Um, Mr Hemsworth- I was wondering," he smiles, speaking in a lower voice, but Chris can see his Adam's apple bobbing, can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "Perhaps a dance?" He concludes, bravely, attempting flirty and unaffected. 

Chris' mind is in a turmoil, about to find out Tom's true motivation only to be interrupted by no one other than himself, in flesh and bones and blond curls. His face is luminous under the light, pale and clean and _real_ , and Chris blinks and seems to wait for a cue, or really, just for the desire to laugh at this absurd to diminish. He wonders, though, how would Tom react if Chris indeed gave in and laughed, how rejecting it would be, but could he know about Chris? By the way he was behaving, Chris would say no, and something itches behind his heart, incomprehensible. 

The men Chris was talking to seemed to be expecting his answer as much as Tom was, looking very unimpressed at the curly blond and probably thinking him one of the many doe-eyed, sweet-voiced young things that came try his luck seducing a single rich man. 

But reacquiring his confidence, Chris promptly pushes his champagne glass onto the round-glassed man's vacant hand without ever taking his eyes away from Tom's. "It'd be a pleasure," he says, and Tom smiles, relieved. 

"Gentlemen," Chris excuses himself with a nod, the men corresponding with less judgemental eyes. Tom lets his hand fall from his shoulder but Chris leads him to the space where the couples are dancing with a hand on the small of his back. 

It's decidedly strange to see him outside his leather skinny outfit, no mask and no high heels. He looks younger, almost, utterly pretty and darling, not at all like a sneaky outlaw. Chris preserves his calm resolution though on the inside he tries to make out what the hell Tom is doing here. No one seems to recognize him or even bother with his presence. 

Tom turns to face him, pleasant smile on his face as he reaches for Chris' hand. The touch of it is splendid, Tom's hands are slippery soft and warm, but hold Chris' with a stark decision. "Here," Tom murmurs, glancing up with a cheeky smile while placing Chris' hand at his waist. The sides of his waistcoat feels firm under Chris' hand, of a rigid material. He briefly wonders if Tom's wearing a bulletproof vest beneath his suit. 

"I'm Noah," Tom lies, laying a hand on Chris' shoulder and cupping the other parallel to their bodies. 

"Oh," Chris smirks, feeling smitten with himself for noticing his lie and wondering how many others fell for it. His amusement must show because for the smallest second Tom's expression breaks into a scared one, his eyes taking Chris' face in to see if he showed traces of having recognized him, but it goes away so fast Chris thinks he imagined it, and Tom only smiles quickly, beginning to step along to the music's rhythm. 

Chris follows smoothly, and they keep their intense eyelock while moving, foot after foot. Chris feels like they need to talk, but if Tom infiltrated into the party with a false name and asked to dance with him in particular, then surely he must have his plans. Chris ponders once more the possibility of Tom having found out his identity but the feline man doesn't look at him with the airs of superiority Chris is positive he's exhaling himself. 

"I hope you'll forgive my asking, but are you a donor for this company? I don't believe I've seen you here before." Chris begins, to which Tom responds with a sweet smile that doesn't reach his eyes. 

"Yes, I am, Mr Hemsworth," he speaks in the same sleek voice, swinging them both to a side of the dance floor. "But you shouldn't worry about not remembering me, I'm afraid I have a very untraceable face," Tom smirks, and there's a double sagacity in that sentence that any other person (that didn't know Tom's true identity of an outlaw) wouldn't have noticed. 

"I beg to differ," Chris protests, though, "I must say you have a very remarkable face." 

Tom laughs, shortly and melodic, but Chris notices he programmed himself into sounding that way. "Thank you, Mr Hemsworth, I'll take that as a compliment." 

"Please do," Chris remarks. There's a flickering hardness in Tom's blue eyes that makes Chris realize his person has just been generally disliked. And he takes a moment to appreciate the notion that Tom thinks this is the first time they see each other when in reality, it's not. It makes Chris proud to know he's the one who knows better, and he understands how arrogant he must seem to Tom now, granted the other man knew nothing about him other than what the media said, that he most probably expected Chris to be a self-assured and petulant billionaire, and was now seeing in first hand how well he could play that role. 

"Your hand is cold," Tom suddenly murmurs, apparently playing his seducing game stronger, squeezing Chris' hand in his but it's the other he presses closer to his waist. 

Chris smiles, and despite their weird, almost obscenely ironic situation, lets himself dance along, literally, lets himself have this moment of vulnerability when they aren't supposed to fight and Tom isn't supposed to kick and present him with their usual love/hate encounters. "You smell really good, Noah." Chris says, because indeed Tom smells erotically good, and the repetition of his fake name must serve as reaffirmation of Chris' ignorance to Tom, because he gives a genuine smile. 

"Well, thank you, Mr Hemsworth, you're terribly kind, sir." 

They dance in silence for a while longer, but Tom darts his eyes up to him and opens his mouth. "I hope you'll forgive my asking, sir, but _I_ don't remember ever seeing you here. Are you a donor too?" 

Chris smirks, and decides to go with the truth. For a change in their relationship. "I don't remember ever being, but it seems I am." 

Tom's eyebrows lift, and he cocks his head to the side. "That doesn't make much sense." 

Chris laughs. "You're right, it doesn't." 

Tom gives a heartless little chuckle, licks his lips, and looks very serious when he adds, "I heard you donated two millions to that organization for homeless and mistreated cats too. That's very admirable, sir." Tom says, truthfully, and Chris can feel himself blush. He should've imagined Tom would have a soft spot for cats. 

 

"It's the least I could do," Chris shrugs, and Tom analyzes him for some time until apparently deeming him a better person and nodding. 

 

Tom is a really good dancer, his slim and fluid body feeling weightless as they spin slowly, eyes locked, a confusion of hate and a very powerful sexual tension. It's not much too different from their usual encounters, Chris figures, except now there are no blows being thrown and no heavy double meanings, and they appraise each other attentively, as fighters or as possible lovers, Chris is never sure which surpasses the other. 

 

"Something seems to ail you, sir." Tom says, lips curved in a gentle smile, lashes batting quickly. 

 

Chris takes a slightly longer breath. "Not particularly, I'm only remembering the talk me and some gentlemen were having before your lovely proposal." 

 

"Ah?" Tom makes, and Chris wonders if he perhaps heard their talk before interrupting it. But Tom doesn't have any immediate reaction of preoccupation, only nods and blushes before looking up at him. "I must admit finances and economy are not my forte." 

 

Chris chuckles because he can't help it. "We were discussing something other than that," he is obligated to pause when they step to the side, the music soft and unobtrusive as Tom eyes him with mild expectation. "For a change." 

 

Tom smiles politely to that, but there's an inner intelligence to his gaze. He seems to want to wring something out of Chris, intent on having something of his, analyzing every word that leaves his mouth before deeming it useful or useless. Chris was accustomed to that look, it was the same bestowed upon him by various young women and men who sought his company for his looks and - Chris suspected - for his money. But Tom's eyes are also loaded with a petulant spice, his chin tilted slightly up, as if he knew he had the upper hand in this but was strangely committed into appearing flirty in a normal way. He was exquisite, and Chris wasn't surprised to see so many shades on him, holding back his breath when assaulted by a sudden pull to dive in and capture Tom for himself. 

 

The other couples around them are a blur, and Chris could bet neither he nor Tom could describe anyone or even tell where they were exactly, so entranced they were in the world minimized inside their eyelock. Chris licks his lips, wonders if it's a good idea to approach the topic of Tom's second identity, but his curiosity is much too big not to, and Tom is the only one in danger of being discovered here. 

 

"Do you wish to try and guess?" Chris asks, a side of his mouth lifting when Tom raises his eyebrows respectfully to that, lips thinning as if he wants to stab Chis but is being held back by his seductive attempts. 

 

Tom hums thoughtfully, his palm warm on Chris' shoulder as he widens his hand to cup it. "Very well," he murmurs, giving Chris his unstoppable charming smile. His tongue curls at the end, almost like a purr, and Chris' ears attune to that. Chris' gaze must show how much he liked it because Tom seems to step closer, letting out an irresistible, victorious aura as he smiles up at Chris, teeth showing. "If your money was not the topic, then I suppose its safety was. Not much happens here in Gotham that disrespects or scares the owners of great fortunes, so the incident in the bank, sir, is my guess." He punctuates the end of the sentence with a darling smile, seeming to delight in the way Chris cocks his head to the side in surprise. His words hold a tinge of poison behind it and Chris can't stop staring at him. Chris believed he'd make Tom surprised by mentioning the bank, but not only had him previewed Chris' topic as he had also managed to turn the barrel to his head. Tom's words savoured of bitterness towards the upper classes and Chris couldn't help growing more mesmerized of his fierceness. He does love a man with a mind. 

 

"You don't sound very supportive of us, great fortunes owners." Chris replies, voice a note lower as in the background a slow violin plays. Tom shrugs a shoulder to that, grinning. Chris tightens his hold on him and Tom smirks, his eyes flashing dangerously for the flimsiest second before he turns amenable again, eyelids decaying. "You're right, though," Chris continues, "We talked about the bank incident, and most importantly," he paused, "who was behind it." 

 

The corner of Tom's lips curves into a smile, and he doesn't look fazed at all, only blinking at Chris, warm breath barely reaching Chris' face. "You were conspiring, then." Tom whispers, and Chris laughs. 

 

"You could say so, yes." 

 

Tom shakes his head mock reproachfully. "Then tell me, did you find the culprit?" 

 

"We had some suppositions, only," says Chris, and their conversation's tone visibly dropped, Tom speaking in murmurs and Chris following, their feet working together, swaying their bodies and adding movement to their dangerous talk, as if reaching a speed that would match their talk's crescendo. "Some believe it was the Batman." 

 

Tom scoffs, laughing shortly before shaking his head. He looks utterly amused, and Chris could relate, he knew how funny it could sound when they both knew the truth, when they both _had been there_. 

 

"You don't believe me?" Chris smirks. 

 

"I believe you, but the idea astounds me." 

 

Chris quirks an eyebrow. "So you're one of those people who believe the Batman is Gotham's hero?" 

 

Tom eyes him for a second, keeping his lips clipped shut, as if he knows he can blurt out something that might condemn him if he doesn't think twice. "I believe he's a man after peace," he says, seriously, and Chris tries to keep his surprise at bay, "But peace isn't easily found or kept in Gotham." Tom gulps after that, seemingly bothered by sentiments he didn't wish to show, guilt perhaps. But whatever it was didn't last much, and he presented Chris with another tight smile, blinking innocently. "Weren't you suspicious of anyone else?" he asks, and something on him exhales pride, and Chris can practically feel the way Tom holds back a languid tilt of his head, the feline motion so second nature to him but possibly too suspicious to demonstrate in a place full of people. 

 

Chris takes longer to answer to that, licking his lips and still stricken with surprise. "Oh, yes. We were thinking the cat," he pauses for effect, but Tom's expression remains unreadable, "he's sure sneaky enough." 

 

Tom smirks, head faintly leaning back in surprise and something stronger Chris can't quite identify. "I suppose." 

 

It seems he wants to lie low, to maintain his façade firmly in place because he must've realized Chris _knows_. But they don't spend half a minute in silence before Chris leads them into a sharp turn in the dance, and Tom seems to take that as defiantly as possible, eyes lighting with mirth and lips tightening quickly before he asks: "And what is _your_ personal opinion, sir, if you'll forgive me asking?" 

 

"You want to know if I think he's the culprit?" Chris raises an eyebrow. 

 

Tom laughs lowly, curtly, a snort of sorts, and now they are almost cheek to cheek. "Well, yes." 

 

Chris smirks, glances at his blue eyes and he still can't convince himself this is truly happening, that this is truly him. "Indeed," Chris takes in a breath through his nose, "I think he's behind this." 

"Oh?" Tom makes, not sounding desperate to hear more. 

Chris chuckles in the back of his throat. "I heard it's not his usual type of crime, but in my opinion, everything on it _screams his name_." 

Tom raises his eyebrows quickly in surprise, but he can be faking it, with the way he looks at Chris it could be said he's become suspicious of the unintentional jab at the end of his sentence. "How so?" He asks, cocking his head to the side, lips pouting prettily. 

Chris opens his mouth to answer, gazing at the interested yet casual set of Tom's eyes. He exhales, breath warm next to Tom's cheek and if he's right about his perception, Tom shudders, faintly tilting his head up. "The subtlety, precision," he enumerates, lowly, "the fearless attitude. The speed. Intelligence." 

Tom releases the lightest breath beside his cheek. "Oh," he mumbles matter-of-factly, gulping, "You sound like an admirer of a criminal, Mr Hemsworth. That's..." he paused, lips pursing, "Interesting." He glimpses up at Chris, eyelashes brushing the top of his cheeks, and his whole demeanor looks teasingly smart. It isn't a surprise when he continues working that quick tongue of his. "But then I must assume you find the Batman unintelligent, if you'd rather assume that - how do they call him? The cat? -" he cocks his head to the side, frowning as if trying to remember, "Was responsible for the attack in regards of his perspicacy instead of the Batman." 

Chris laughs, throwing his gaze up to the ceiling, a sudden shiver going up his spine and ending at the back of his neck, making all his hairs stand on end and _Tom couldn't possibly know_. Chris was ever careful not to sound partial to the Batman's public figure, but here Tom was using an alleged complicity as counterattack material, as though by offending Batman, he could be offending Chris. It doesn't take long for Chris to recuperate, though: he had been trained - thoroughly so - and couldn't put everything he was at stake. 

"But Batman isn't a criminal," Chris retaliates, and Tom's smile instantly slips off, gaze hardening. "Although he has his flaws and, as cleverly as you put it, is unintelligent and tries to play off the role of the police." 

This isn't the harshest Chris can sound when trying to scorn Batman's image, but it serves its purpose, and Tom grins disdainfully, looking for a second as if he had been made to bite a lemon. 

"My apologies then, sir, perhaps I confused some things," Tom says, not sounding apologetic enough to mollify Chris' heart. It isn't like Tom's trying either, his words are edged with irony, and Chris grits his teeth with a passion he can't discern as good or bad. He just feels immensely impotent in some way, being able to touch Tom and nothing else, their hearts and mind feeling at fight. "Seeing as Batman protects individual fortunes, I might've been led to assume your position was favourable towards him." 

Chris raises an eyebrow, something twisting inside him, and he chuckles, hand brazen on Tom's waist as they spin complicatedly, his shoulder knocking against someone else's, but Chris isn't paying any attention. "That's a daring assumption. You mean to say I should take Batman's cause because he protects my money from being stolen?" 

"Heroes are heroes because they please someone, Mr Hemsworth," he replies, playing embarrassed all of a sudden, looking down and all. 

"Because they please people, not only a small part of them," Chris corrects, and a heavier question gnaws in the back of his mind. "And _if_ Batman is a hero - which I never said he was - because he protects the rich, then in your opinion, the cat is what if attacks them?" 

Tom tilts his chin down, only lightly, enough to make his eyes round and beautiful, innocent until proven guilty, blinking mesmerisedly up at Chris, the corners of his lips tugging until he's smirking, truthfully mirthful. "Intelligent," he answers, following with a purr. 

Chris smiles, largely, because he can't help it. The mind on him... Chris' body feels aflame, lured by the same old magnetic attraction, only now increased tenfold. He longs to do or say anything that might tilt Tom's favor his way, that might conquer him. Tom seems to loathe him because of his money, because of the power it entails, and Chris feels feverish with the irony of it. Tom didn't know who Chris was, and though his tongue itched, Chris knew he couldn't tell him. Tom thinks and will continue to think him a rich and conceited bastard, too blinded to see, and Chris, unable to tell him otherwise. By stealing jewelry Tom wasn't being correct, but he was _doing something_. If their situations were reversed, if Chris was poor and stole for a reason, would he be wrong? If he wore his mask at night to fight, wouldn't he too be as marginalized as Tom was now? Wouldn't his head too be worth fifty thousand? 

They were the same, bat or cat. But fighting on opposite sides. Chris takes a minute to absorb that, "It seems we can finally agree on something, Noah." He ends up saying, and Tom smiles minimally to that. There's a sudden air in Chris' mind, a want he's been kept hidden, and he tugs Tom closer only slightly by the waist, ducking to whisper in his ear tactfully. "In fact, you're exactly as intelligent as him." Tom literally stumbles to that, increasing his hold on Chris as their dance's pace is momentarily broken, but save for a faint pink that rises to his cheeks, Tom doesn't mention it, lowering his gaze for a second, shaken, but then he's up with the same airs as before. 

Tom stares at Chris' tie for a while, moving as dexterously as before, a twisted smile tugging on one corner of his mouth but he doesn't say anything. Chris doesn't push him, instead moves along, and a few seconds longer leads them to the end of the song, a dying violin smoothing the music until it ends, all the couples halting and separating around them. It feels like the longest song Chris has ever danced to, but he knows in reality it had lasted nothing but a few minutes. 

"You're a really good dancer, Noah," Chris says, their hands unclasping but Chris maintains his palm on Tom's waist lightly. 

Tom gulps, smiling half-heartedly. "Thank you, sir, so are you." 

Chris nods, and when a waiter walks past, motions and gets a champagne glass. "A drink?" He offers, tilting it in Tom's direction. Tom opens his mouth, eyes landing on the drink as he thinks until nodding shortly, their fingers touching as Chris hands him the glass and fetches another to himself. They both take their sips of it, watching each other above the rim of their glasses, gazes heated. It's impossible for Tom not to be feeling it too, matching Chris' eyes, throat long and pale as he drinks. 

"It was a pleasure dancing with you, sir." He says, seeming to want to depart already, nervous, and Chris nods, smiling serenely as he licks his lips, gaze falling to his own hand on Tom's waist, stopping him from moving away with a tender pressure. 

Chris has done this sometimes already. He reckons he did it more frequently when younger, women and men finding their way towards his arms almost too easily, hanging beside him with a too solicitous carisma, eyes heavy with intent, standing closer and closer until whispering something about a house but Chris would always take them to a hotel, where he would be more probably caught by paparazzi. It was an act, it always was, none of them were anything like Tom. And trying to do it now, Chris feels like he's leveling Tom to them, but this is perhaps the only chance he'll get. Nothing can assure him they'll see each other again in the future in any other circumstance that might allow them to do this. If one night is what he can get... 

"Where are you headed after this?" is the best question he can come up with, and Tom looks so surprised for a moment Chris thinks he said something wrong. Tom blushes, the hardest he has throughout the whole night, mouth parting, eyes low, cocking his head and squaring his jaw. "I don't mean to offend you," Chris continues, because it looks like this is how Tom is feeling. "On the contrary, I admire you more than you'd know." 

Tom flashes his eyes to him, and it's visible how he knows Chris means something else, the way his breath turns shaky, the way his eyelids hood when Chris comes closer. "Mr Hemsworth," he murmurs, swallowing forcefully, clearly divided between a communion of sentiments. In less than a second Chris goes from feeling desired to threatened and about to be stabbed and then back to desired as Tom watches him for all he's worth, blinking and shaking his head once, letting out a ridiculous chuckle. "Sir," he tries again, lips paper-white. 

"I have a car waiting for me outside," Chris is quick to say, and they're close, breath mingling, Chris' heart beating wildly, every pore seeming to open to hear what Tom has to say. "I can show you the main suite," he whispers, and Tom's hand comes to the lapel of his jacket, so quickly Chris almost doesn't see it, and they both stare as Tom clutches it, either to push Chris away or to draw him closer, none of them know. 

The Hemsworth Manor is severely kept under a mist of mystery and refinement, and no one other than Alfred, the servants and Chris himself has ever been in it. Chris took no one home, and the general speculation lingered of how many rooms there were, the size of the gardens and the usual foolishness that kept people entertained about luxury living. But Tom he'd take home, to Tom he could show the main suite, and preferably, much more. It was nothing short of an immense privilege, and Tom, as any other person, felt as much with the way his breath hitched, finally looking up at Chris, pupils blown, biting the end of his bottom lip as though he wants to spit in his face or kiss him. Chris knows how it feels, and leans closer, aligning the line of Tom's nose with his, their mouths mere inches apart, their gazes almost physically burning, Chris' loins heating, head airy with the thoughts of taking Tom in his room, in front of the hearth, curtains billowing on the windows, the gardens outside, Tom's long legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back. 

"Mr Hemsworth," Tom finally says, eyelids falling completely until his eyes are shut, his forehead resting against Chris'. Chris is positive he'll say yes. "I'm sorry," Tom continues, and Chris' heart might have stopped. "I-" A puff, Tom's voice is clearly leaving him forcefully, "There's someone else." 

Chris steps back, "Ah," he makes, and it matches how pathetic he feels. A foreign sensation goes through him, as if he had breathed in ammonia, his chest sour and dull. 

Someone else. Tom had someone else. 

"He must be very, very lucky." Chris manages to say, more to soothe himself though it only makes him feel worse. 

Tom nods slowly, eyes glued on Chris as if he regrets it and wants to take it back, but if it's true he doesn't act on it. "He is," he sighs, dropping his hand from Chris' jacket and then follows the heaviest tension Chris has ever felt between two people. "He is the bravest man I've ever met." He says it firmly, eyes steady on Chris, as if spitting on his face something Chris could never match. 

"Is he here?" Chris asks, a flame rising up in him as he swings his gaze around them. 

Tom laughs, genuinely. During the whole night, it's the first time he does it. He shrugs, looking up at Chris and smiling. He looks beautiful, eyes glinting, so powerful, so peaceful. Tom looks away, at the wide door at the far end of the room, where the nightly sky is visible. "I think he's everywhere, Mr Hemsworth." And then he turns on his heels, and leaves, back straight as he walks past bodies and soft conversations, until he's out of sight. 

Chris stands there and watches him go, hand in his pocket, still keeping the warmth of Tom's body. The music restarts, and amidst the crowd of bodies, Chris feels lonely. Chris sighs and turns on his heels, mind fogged with a desperate disappointment on having lost Tom. 

He paces aimlessly through the ballroom, keeping an eye out should Tom reappear or for the group of men from before to show up, but it seems they had separated. 

"Mr Hemsworth," the people said and nodded to him, and Chris returned the greetings with a small grin. He was beginning to feel stifled when Anthony, the mayor, spotted him, making sure to stride over to talk to him properly, a young lady to whom he had been talking to tagging along. 

"Oh, Mr Hemsworth!" Anthony says, patting Chris' shoulder amicably. 

"Hello, Anthony," Chris feels obligated to say. Anthony was a curious character, a slim man with neat black hair and a hard facial expression that looked very fitting for a mayor whenever he did television speeches but that was, in reality, incompatible with his true unremarkable personality; he was, after all, one of the less popular mayors Gotham had ever seen, more interested in the social media than social development. Few times Chris had seen someone so unfit for power. 

"It's so good to see you here," Anthony says, wide smile and an affected tip of his throat when sipping from his champagne. "They said your presence wasn't confirmed, but I thought 'surely, Mr Hemsworth is coming', for what other strong personality we have here in Gotham?" He laughs to that, the sound a little grating on Chris' ears. 

The woman seems to be staring at Chris, and when he returns her gaze Anthony interrupts himself. "Oh, what a head of mine. I forgot to introduce you, Melinda." He says to the woman, who smiles and says nothing. 

She looks fetching in a red dress, short brown hair and petit features. Save for a freckle on her naked shoulder, nothing really stands out. Her eyes are hazel, or perhaps green, Chris isn't sure, and in any other situation he'd have felt tempted to immerse himself in it, but after Tom's departure he finds his own disposition waning, everything in this event feeling much too bland. "Mr Hemsworth, this is Melinda Sabet, our environment secretary. You must've heard of her, though I'm sure she has heard of you." Anthony laughs again, and both Chris and Melinda seem to eye him with the same unimpressed eyes before Chris turns to her and nods, extending a hand to support hers and laying a kiss on her knuckles. 

"I've had the pleasure, yes." He says, and she answers with a small smile. 

"It's so good to finally meet you, Mr Hemsworth," she says, "Gotham should be ever thankful for having you as a-" she turns to Anthony, "personality." 

"Thank you, Ms Sabet," Chris says, finding something inherently calm in the way she speaks. 

"Mr Hemsworth is our finest fellow, isn't he?" Anthony continues, and Chris finds his conversation so tiring. Melinda must think so too, with the way she grins and the surreptitious bored glint of her eyes. "Tell me, Mr Hemsworth, how are you liking the event? I found this champagne delicious," he raises his glass for emphasis, "I shall ask for its name- But, oh, you must know it, certainly, don't you?" 

Thankfully Chris doesn't get a chance to reply as the music dies and a soft clink echoes about the ballroom, the host and president of the company standing for a speech. Sighing inwardly, Chris flings his gaze around the room, wondering if someone will notice if he walks away. It's probably late already. 

Chris tips his wrist to check the time and he should've noticed before because he feels lighter, but it's only when he's staring at his naked wrist that it dawns on him. Biting his lips, Chris fights a bitter grin, wanting to laugh at his own stupidity and tipping his champagne glass in victory at the general direction Tom had disappeared into. 

That sneaky, _sneaky little demon._

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any English mistakes!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished what was supposed to be the first scene of this chapter and decided to post to keep this up! Hope you enjoy :)

\- 

 

Tom walks away swiftly, dodging old crones in jewel-infested dresses, heavily cologned men in tailored suits and young things with pretty teeth and empty heads. Fighting the impulse to look over his shoulder at the man he had just danced with, whose stare almost burnt the back of Tom's neck, Tom focused instead on the stifling animosity that always assaulted him when being close to these people or pretending to be one of them. 

His chest feels tumultuous, his cheeks burn red, heart beating so fast he feels it's about to burst out of his ribcage. 

_What a petulant, insufferable, incredibly handsome asshole._

He dropped too many hints for it not to be obvious he knew Tom was in disguise, and perhaps, if Tom was a little less brave, he'd felt intimidated. As it was, his taunts only made Tom grit his teeth, close his hands into fists and try to make himself immune to that absolutely magnetic charm that almost made him give out in the end. 

He had offered Tom his bed, the one in his bedroom, in the Hemsworth Manor, for god's sake. The single thought of it made Tom's knees buckle, but he kept himself steady as he swiftly walked out the room, his figure slim and gracious, climbing down the steps leading to the streets, unnoticed. The air feels immediately fresher, so different from the suffocating expensive cologne smell he had been made to breathe in. 

Tom gives wide steps and is quickly out of sight of the gleaming event. Warily, he looks over his shoulder but there's no one following him. 

It's a long walk back home but Tom prefers to do it by feet rather than take a cab that he couldn't pay for on top of taking the risk of being recognized. 

He huffs into the still night air. 

Nowadays he could barely leave his street without pulling on his hood. Perhaps he was imagining it but having his name and face released in the press had contributed to making him feel like he was living in a way more hostile ambience. People stared. It made him feel uncomfortable, and for the first time, scared. 

Mind going back to the event, Tom shucks his tie and throws it away at a random dump, receiving an affronted mewl from a cat. 

Tom only keeps his jacket because the night feels cold, otherwise he'd have teared it apart. But pocketing his hands, Tom smiles as he feels the cold metal, and brings it up to eye level. 

A glinting silver watch. What a piece. 

Huffing, the corner of his lips quirk up only enough until he remembers its previous owner. At least Tom had gotten what he wanted out of Chris, which was always a victory. Still. 

Tom knew about the Hemsworths, all of Gotham did. He remembered the grieving state the city had been left in when the Hemsworth's murder filled the news. But as a poor child living in the suburbs, with an always tearful mother and an alcoholic father, Tom couldn't say he had been sorry for them. In some way, it revolted him, really. Tom had seen people being murdered, poor people, the ones with no importance. It made him nauseous to realize that their murders, cruel and sanguinary, would never hit the papers, would never cause a commotion simply because they had no important-sounding names, or because they had no pearl necklace hanging around their necks. 

Tom couldn't remember what had happened to the Hemsworth child, Christopher was his name. But about four years ago he had reappeared in Gotham, and had become the center of attentions since. From the shady pub on the corner of his street, Tom had more than once watched the boring television programs, live news and red carpets where Chris always seemed to be, rich young girls at his arms. It made Tom bristle, not so much for jealousy, but for rage. The sheer luxury those people were allowed to live in, completely ignoring the way the city had become more and more violent and poverty-stricken with every year that came and went, that had been the deciding factor for Tom to choose his path in life. 

As he walks, the streets become dimmer, narrower, the shadows moving in liquid darkness. The soft sole of his shoes barely makes a noise, but Tom hurries his steps. Throughout his whole life, Tom had never felt safe. And here, in his street, in his old and creaking flat, where his father had had his chest shot by the neighbor because their cat was too noisy, where his mother had died quietly in the living room from a weak heart, here Tom felt the safest. But on the streets, Tom was a target, and he had learned from a young age that there was always someone lurking with a gun, willing to shoot. 

But he makes it, nodding to old Mr Friggs, sat in his plastic chair, wrapped in old clothes. Tom opens the door to the stairs, and it seems the brothel under his house is in one of its wildest nights, raucous, manly laughter following Tom up the stairs, barely stoppered by the shutting of his door. 

Tom pauses at the doorstep, and stares at the interior. Everything looks just the same, the old floorboards, the hard couch and his mother's favorite armchair, the heavy and small television that was last generation to him when his father brought it home almost twenty years ago. The cluttered kitchen, grey cupboards and two plates drying on the rack, one Tom's and the other no one's. It doesn't seem like someone had barged in. Chest a little lighter, Tom surprisingly thinks of Chris. 

He hadn't expected him to be that _overwhelming_. Sighing, Tom shook his head, definitely not thinking about how he could have traded his cold and moldy flat for one night on the Hemsworth's suite. 

"What a fool," he whispers, not knowing who he meant. Tom finally rids himself of his jacket, throwing it on the sofa as he walks farther inside. In his room, he shucks off his shoes and unzips his trousers. 

The night looks dead from his window, and Tom preciously unbuttons his waistcoat, laying it carefully on his table. 

There comes a noise outside, a glass bottle rolling. Tom's instincts take over, firming his shoulders, head turning sharply to his window. But a thin, black body slips to his windowsill, pausing there on its paws, obsidian eyes staring back at him through the glass. 

Tom smiles, and turns the lock to open the window. "Hello, little friend," he says, clucking his tongue in greeting, hand reaching out to pat the small cat on its head. The creature purrs, pushing at Tom's hand to get in and Tom laughs, widening the window so the black cat jumps inside. Tom clicks the window closed again, and when the cat makes to inspect the waistcoat atop his table Tom tsks it away. "No messing with my work, little one. This is too important, but you can nip at it once I'm done," the cat mewls in response, visibly unhappy as it saunters to the floor and gives Tom its wide eyes. "What? That old witch didn't feed you again, is it?" It doesn't answer him, but Tom knows those eyes. "Come on, let's see what I've got in the fridge." 

It isn't much, unsurprisingly. Two eggs, an old cheese that is starting to smell, a cheap bottle of juice and some leftovers from last night's dinner, cold pasta and blotchy sauce. "This will have to do, little one." 

While the cat feeds, Tom turns back to his room. The waistcoat lays there, and Tom unsticks its first layer. The idea was very ingenious, and barely noticed. He had acquired some face powder from the girls downstairs at the brothel, the only friends he had. Tom taught them how to defend themselves should a client ever become too obnoxious, and gave them the precious jewels he stole, and in turn they helped him, sent him food whenever they could, and promised to watch his flat should someone ever come looking for him. 

Dribbling it now over the waistcoat, Tom smirks when Chris' fingerprints come out like a starry night. Instead of scattered and barely-there like it usually was whenever Tom was targeting other people, Chris' fingerprints were only centred on his waist, intact. This meant he had a firm grip, that his hands didn't wander like those of Mr Earle, for example, who was an insufferable bastard that Tom had had to tolerate for half-an-hour, dodging the man's snide whispers and his wife's accusing glare at the other side of the room. 

Tom blows the excess powder away, and looks down at Chris' fingerprint proudly. 

"Got you."


	4. Chapter 4

When Chris wakes up the next morning, it's to an empty room and an aching member. His head falls softly back onto the pillow. Chris sighs, and reluctantly slips a hand under the covers. He doesn't have the time to feel guilty as he palms himself, giving some tentative tugs before his mind unsurprisingly unfolds last night's events behind his eyelids. 

Chris lets out a grunt, and the covers rustle. He feels himself filling under his own ministrations, his body growing warmer with every memory of Tom's lashes batting quickly up at him, his smart, tiny grin, the soft skin of his hands and the impenetrable, almost defying glint of his eyes. The ceiling watches down at him when Chris slides a thumb over the head and hisses, neck stretching as he throws his head back, redoubling his pumps as he comes closer and closer to the edge. Tom's minty breath over Chris' cheek, the slim body that could do wonderful things and that looked so unfairly beautiful in his tight outfit. How long would it take?, Chris wonders, to make Tom accept his offer. 

The memory of Tom's words when rejecting him hits Chris like a pang that sours his release. He feels a tug in his chest, like his heart was folding upon it itself when Tom's words comes back. _Someone else_. 

He streaks himself with his own come, warm over his skin, clinging to the covers. There's a light film of perspiration on his forehead, chest heaving with his breathing. Chris groans, and looks up for the time it takes him to make peace with himself and the current state of things, standing up and heading to his bathroom. He washes his face at the sink, and stares right back at his eyes. He hated soiling his sheets like a teenager, even more so when he had been jacking off to the memory of a criminal. _Not just a criminal_ , his mind supplies, _Tom_. That shouldn't make him feel better about it, but somehow it does. 

 

\- 

 

As much as Chris wants to reminisce every aspect of his and Tom's encounter in a favourable, perhaps even amorous light, he can't deny the situation hadn't been oddly coincidental. First, being invited to the gala of a charity company he hadn't even known existed before. Secondly, meeting Tom, who was certainly up to no good by trying to rob the city's main bank there. The two events have to be connected, there's no escaping it. 

Taking time off his lunch break, Chris looks the charity up. It has an official website depicting children gathered around worktables with teeth-gaping smiles. They seem to work mostly on peripheries and in a couple cities abroad. In big golden letters the charity announces the receipt of a big prize handed by the UN. Scrolling down, Chris finds a statement from their president when interviewed by a famous magazine. He said he was proud of the work the charity was doing around the world, taking orphans and children in harsh environments in and giving them a brighter future. Right next to it a black and white photo of said president stands: a thin man with a pointed chin and round glasses. The same man Chris had met the night before, the only one who was suspicious of Tom. 

But what- 

Chris' phone rings and he hastily closes the website. The call is from the Research Department. "Fox?" He asks into the mouthpiece. 

"Mr Hemsworth. Would you have a minute?" 

 

~*~ 

 

Fox meets him by the elevator, nodding once before leading him down the hallways of his department. "It isn't complete yet, but for the most part it is working as I predicted. Thought you'd like to see it though." 

Fox inserts the password for his private working room and the doors slide open with a hiss. Chris follows him into the room, patiently waiting while his friend turns on the power. Standing at the far end of the room is a metallic shape. Chris' own feet lead him there. 

It's bigger than he'd first thought, but at the same time very compact. He whistles, and Fox chuckles. 

"Does it fly?" Chris asks, stepping around the jet reverently. The parts fall together in a perfect, aerodynamic shape, sleek and piercing. 

"Yes. I've been testing it during the week," Fox goes on details about the engine and its power, pointing to every part as he explains its purpose. The airship seems very potent and light; the control pad doesn't seem to require much expertise either, which is good since Chris is a bit less familiar with machines that don't require wheels. The interior seems a bit cramped, and his legs would have some problem fitting in there, but there's a passenger seat as well and enough room for more equipment to be stored in the back. "What do you think?" Fox finally asks, leaning on the left wing and appraising his handiwork. 

Chris bites his bottom lip, raking a final eyeful over Fox's work. "I think I don't deserve it." 

Fox laughs, tapping the jet's side amusedly. "Too bad. It's all yours. I'll only need to make a few adjustments. It should be ready by the end of the week." Chris smiles, patting Fox's shoulder gratefully. "Oh, and one more thing," Fox continues, "I haven't decided on the color yet. Which do you prefer?" He lifts a single eyebrow, teasing smirk in place. Of course he already knows the answer, but it's come kind of an intern joke of theirs. 

"Black," Chris winks. 

 

~*~ 

 

Much as he likes working Chris is grateful to finally be home. As always, Alfred greets him by the front door and recites the menu for dinner. Chris skips his shower altogether at the mention of food, and only takes off his jacket before rushing to the dining room. 

It had taken him some time until eating by himself became normal. When his parents were alive they used to have every meal together, they were traditional like that. Following their murders Chris had taken to eating in his room, with sometimes Alfred to keep him company. That was, of course, before he left. 

Alfred lights the hearth for him while Chris eats. In his patient and soft voice he relies the most recent news of the household to know if there was anything in particular Chris would like him to see to. Chris doesn't do much other than shake his head and hum at the opportune moments. The food is delicious. 

Chris dabs on the corners of his mouth once he is done, about to ask Alfred his opinion on whether they could fit a jet underground or not the phone rings. His butler excuses himself to answer and Chris stands to finish his glass of wine. 

Try as he might Chris still hadn't found out the connection between last night's events. There was something decidedly suspicious about Tom's presence, together with the president's apparition despite the man being seemingly the only one to know a slice of Tom's true character and intentions. Everything seemed so obvious but none of the facts stuck together. The answer seemed to be staring at his face without Chris managing to reach it, which was infuriating. 

Sighing, Chris stands by the hearth to down the rest of his drink, staring at the embers in some introspective way of acquiring knowledge. There was something different about the way Tom was acting. Why? Because Tom had never been after _money_ , Chris reasons. He robbed jewels, not money. Why did he need it now? 

The door to the dining room opens with its familiar creak, and Chris turns to see Alfred, absolutely livid, still holding the phone in his hand. 

"Alfred?!" 

"Sir," Alfred croaks, "there's been-" he inhales. "It's Mr Fox. He suspects a certain criminal invaded the company and broke into your office." 

 

~*~ 

 

Chris is already inside his outfit before checking his bike's GPS location on the screen again. Gritting his teeth, it's with no surprise that he sees the new spot blinking ominously: Hemsworth Enterprises. The nerve of him. 

Chris bolts through the streets as fast as he can. This had to have been planned. Chris would already be there if he had his bike on him and the traffic jam at this hour is terrifying. The jet would be perfect right now. 

The building has been evacuated, which is visible what with the amount of people crowding around it, Chris' own employees. The police has trouble keeping everyone at bay, reporters and their cameras and the crowd of onlookers and employees. Chris should've thought this through better because he's in his outfit and there's no way to dodge the crowd without being spotted, but he'd never have guessed he'd one day have to rescue his own company. 

So he does the only thing he can think of. He calls Fox. 

The phone rings once before Fox picks up. "Chris," he greets, his voice completely serious, different from anything Chris had ever heard him sounding like before, "I'm in the department. He broke into your personal computer. I saw him online but you'd already left so I called Alfred and alerted the police. He's locked the upper floor though. I believe you want me to send you the jet, right?" 

Chris has never been more thankful for having Fox as a friend. 

 

~*~ 

 

Chris hides, ironically, next to Gotham's Central Bank, three blocks away from his own building. He waits for half a minute which actually feels like an hour. If the math he has done is correct Tom has only allowed himself into the most basic operations under his name, but he can't be sure. He hadn't been expecting the little bastard to dance with him to extricate his fingerprint after all. 

There's a far-away _ooh_ that washes over the city and then the sound of air being cut and then it appears, whooshing loudly and making Chris' cape flag behind him with the force of the air. It lands right in front of Chris, and before the people can scream with his apparition he rolls forward and takes his seat. He'd need to adjust this seat later. His legs are cramped inside the space but he makes out the controls and is able to start the engine. 

"Chris?" It's Fox's voice resounding around him. "I've programmed it to glide right next to your office window. You should know what to do then. I've set the path back to your house, Alfred has been warned. Oh, I forgot to tell you: it also comes with an autopilot." The call ends with Fox's chuckle. 

Chris had stared out of his office window several times, but never had he stared into it _from_ the outside. He has a quick case of vertigo before taking a deep breath. The glass compartment opens up right next to it and the air pulls around him. Chris curses and steps as firmly as he can. His heart beats madly but he wills himself not to look down. He acquires some balance on the edge of the right wing, and flexes his knees before jumping. His body breaks through his own glass, shattering into a million pieces. 

He doesn't land right, on his back, but he's so glad he isn't dead he barely feels the pain. For a moment he only blinks, standing and whipping his head around. His computer screen is on and he can't help but feel a déjà-vu, which proves to be good as he is able to bend before the air whooshes above his head. 

When Chris stands he's already sat atop his table, legs crossed and head cocked to the side, feet swinging over the floor graciously. 

"We should stop meeting like this," Chris says. 

He lifts an eyebrow, pouting. "Really? But I like it so much," he smiles. "You should stop making this mess, not a good entrance at all," he indicates the glass shards littering the floor, and the sight of him, sat atop Chris' desk in that tight outfit, the sky behind him and the wind that ruffles his curls is too much. "Not to mention," he smirks, "I don't think Mr Hemsworth will be able to cover these expenses once I'm done with him." 

Chris takes a step forward. 

"But you see," Tom lifts a gloved finger, "I did change my repertoire," he moves his finger towards his thigh holster and Chris uses the opportunity to move forward. He expects to grab his wrist and overthrow him but Chris' movements cease altogether when a tiny, sleek gun is being pointed to his forehead. 

Tom laughs. "What do you think? To be quite frank I prefer it when we get physical," the words come out like a hiss, and the fervent, warm gaze he shoots Chris is unmistakeable. "But this is my last chance and can't have you messing me up." 

Last chance? Chris frowns, eyes going to his computer. The process must still be loading, or else Tom wouldn't be stalling for time. Although with him, one could never know. But then again, Chris has his own tricks up the sleeve. 

"Very well. I will not bother you then," Chris pulls the chair he keeps for guests and takes a seat. Tom looks at him funny. "But we should talk." 

"Definitely," Tom preens, gun still poised to Chris' head. "First question: what the hell are you doing here so soon?" 

"Soon? I didn't know we had a scheduled date." 

The corner of Tom's mouth quirks up but there's a hardness to his eyes. He wasn't playing his usual game, otherwise he wouldn't have a gun on him. Chris knew Tom's tactics better than he imagined. That's why everything about him was so odd now. Using a gun to rob his money instead of using his graceful speed to rob jewels. 

"You knew I was here before the police did," Tom clarifies. "How?" 

Chris stares into his icy eyes. He seems truly quirked. "A friend called me," he licks his lips, "said there was a nasty little boy trying to take his money. I just thought it too much of a coincidence." 

Tom's lips pull into a snarl. "You know Hemsworth?" 

Chris doesn't know what to answer, so he doesn't. Tom makes a displeased sound. "You disappoint me. I thought we were one of a kind," he huffs, "For how long have you known him?" 

"Long enough." 

"Long enough that you wouldn't be surprised to know your esteemed Mr Hemsworth had his hands all over me last night?" He defies, a high blush on his cheeks. He seems to be pushing for Chris' jealousy. If only he knew. 

Chris rests his head back. "Well, he's always had a nice taste." 

Tom inches his chin higher though it's visible he enjoys the compliment. He gulps once, his Adam's apple bobbing. He opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. "I don't know what to make of you," he stage whispers, and it sounds so vulnerable, so _true_ that Chris is taken out of his reverie. 

"What did you want from me, Thomas?" 

Chris hadn't meant to say his name out loud, but now it's done. Tom flinches out of his skin, and it is in these moments that he looks the most feline, spine taught and fur up. "I thought you understood me," he says, and Chris might be crazy because it seems his eyes are brimming with tears. 

"I-" he tries, "I do." 

Tom is already shaking his head. "You're as bad as them," he seems to be stalling to say something else, but then his gaze strays to the computer screen and he squares his jaws. "Never mind. Send Mr Hemsworth my regards," he uncrosses his legs, seeming to be about to leave. Chris doesn't move, he knows what's to come next. 

"Transfer concluded," the artificial voice echoes, "please type passcode to finalize." 

Tom becomes livid. A gush of wind seems to almost make his knees fail him. Chris doesn't know how long they stay like that, Tom, standing and devoid of expression, and Chris, sat and watching him. 

"You knew it," Tom says, voice flat and lacking the usual snide. 

Chris licks his lips. He knew it. His parents' murders' date, the day that changed his life forever. There didn't seem to be a more fitting passcode for the last case scenario. "He told me", he chose to say. 

Tom nods quietly. Chris flinches, but Tom puts his gun back into its holster. He moves to the computer and for a moment Chris thinks that was it, he knew the passcode, but he only presses one button. 

"Transfer cancelled," the AI chirped. 

Chris simply stares at him. Tom is defeated, he knows it too, or else he wouldn't be giving Chris that sad smile. "I guess you always win, little bat," he whispers. 

He _has_ to have something up his sleeve. He doesn't ever give up. It's an act, Chris is sure. But then he unlocks the floor, and the police will be here in no time. They can't jump out the gaping window, it would be a seventy floors death. But Tom is the criminal here, though they can't prove Batman wasn't somehow involved. Doesn't matter, Chris couldn't press charges against himself. 

"Show me your face," Tom is saying, "please." 

Chris doesn't know how to move. 

"I need to know who you are." 

The police is coming, they don't have much time. Chris moves his hands to his face. He doesn't know why he's going to do it, but Tom had said something about a last chance and Chris' instinct tells him he should pay the utmost attention to that. 

The air makes a whooshing noise, an approaching aircraft, and Chris knows it before he's seen it. Fox knows. 

Tom almost jumps out of his skin but Chris is already running towards him. His jet glides next to the window. He envelops Tom in his arms. He's never jumped over a free fall carrying a dead weight with him before, but he knows he's got to take Tom with him. Except there's a sudden pain in his arm, a dagger up his flesh. It's instinctual, and Chris lets go. When he jumps Tom isn't with him, when he slides down the wing and manages to grab onto the edge he knows Tom has chosen to stay behind. His arm bleeds profusely but once he's crawled into safety and into the pilot seat the jet is already pushing away from the scene, and Chris wishes there wasn't an autopilot. 

 

~*~ 

 

Alfred doesn't understand his agitation. The news said nothing had been taken. The chief of police is giving a live interview: his officers had arrived on the last floor to find it vacant, the CEO's office had suffered some damage, the windows had been broken thanks to the Batman, which they have footage on. They had tried to contact Mr Hemsworth but he had left on vacations. No more information as the investigation goes on. 

Chris doesn't know if they have Tom, but if they had they would say something about it. Wouldn't they? 

Alfred has seemed to reach more or less the same conclusion as Chris, given the way he eyes him. 

Chris gets up from his seat in front of the tv. He hurries down the stairs and presses his passcode. His bike's gps is still blinking, but now it's moving. Chris laughs, hurrying to the screen. Down an avenue, then a turn to left onto a street, then a turn to the right and it goes and goes madly. He must be going at a really high speed, but what truly catches Chris' attention is the fact that he doesn't seem to have a destination, he's going in circles. He's scaping from something. The little dot blinks next to a corner, and then it's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Your comments are lovely.


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